“Pro-life” is not a neutral, descriptive term. It is a dagger of psychological warfare that is backed by hate and terror…a profound libel and insult to those who help women. Words kill, and the phrase “pro-life” is an obscene and grotesque sophistry.
–Dr. Warren Hern’s response to the murder of Dr. George Tiller, 2009
We didn’t want to make Dr. Tiller’s death a political occasion, but beginning on the afternoon of May thirty-first we felt that his life should be honored, all of it, not just his work. His life as a husband of forty-five years, a father of four, a grandfather of ten, a navy flight surgeon, a man with great sense of humor, and an individual committed to his church, his community, and the U.S. Constitution and Bill of Rights. It was our job to let the public know that he wasn’t just a human being, but a heroic human being, because we knew that other people were going to be saying a lot of terrible things about him.
–Dan Monnat, recounted in The Wichita Divide.
Often, I struggle with how often I dwell over terrorism in my writing. Still, the implications of such experiences remain unfathomable children I ghost-raise. Their memories run circles around me unpredictably.
An otherwise seasonal, holiday stroll through the Boulder Creek Festival renders a fire truck raising a ladder to the sky for goo-goo-eyed spectators as I count fire trucks and ambulances flying down West Side Highway turning the corner of Canyon Boulevard. Everything gray concrete and rushed and I have the re-epiphany that my memorialized count of dead rescue workers is measly compared to the actual count I knew rather desperately that day. Ten years later, my terror evolves.
In reading The Wichita Divide, I became curious of the Reformation Lutheran Church survivors—the baby scheduled to be baptized, the new folks bound for confirmation. The ushers. Someone’s daughter who reached his gunshot face first. The veterinarian who gave mouth to mouth with the blood on his face. I wonder how their flashbacks and memories unravel.
Not everything—almost nothing— I memorialize of Dr. Tiller is terrible. Indisputably prophetic and deeply skilled, he was a genuinely kind and authentic man with an abiding sense of humor and purpose. Every single thing he did for his community was necessary and good.
On my thirtieth birthday, I drove home via the heartland of the United States for the holidays. I stopped in Wichita for a few things: to memorialize my father’s alma mater and my parents’ first home as newlyweds. And, to see Dr. Tiller’s church. I don’t know exactly why I didn’t desire to visit the now-closed clinic. But I knew in my heart I was supposed to pray in his once-sanctuary.
Last night, as a part of my ongoing search for an abiding sense of balance, I sought my own Sabbath ceremony at Boulder Kirtan, a chanting assembly, and met a sage, great-grandfather, astronomer/astrologer about the size of Dr. Tiller, with similarly warm hands. Gentle being.
Often, I struggle with how often I dwell over terrorism in my writing. Still, the implications of such experiences remain unfathomable children I ghost-raise. Their memories run circles around me unpredictably.
An otherwise seasonal, holiday stroll through the Boulder Creek Festival renders a fire truck raising a ladder to the sky for goo-goo-eyed spectators as I count fire trucks and ambulances flying down West Side Highway turning the corner of Canyon Boulevard. Everything gray concrete and rushed and I have the re-epiphany that my memorialized count of dead rescue workers is measly compared to the actual count I knew rather desperately that day. Ten years later, my terror evolves.
In reading The Wichita Divide, I became curious of the Reformation Lutheran Church survivors—the baby scheduled to be baptized, the new folks bound for confirmation. The ushers. Someone’s daughter who reached his gunshot face first. The veterinarian who gave mouth to mouth with the blood on his face. I wonder how their flashbacks and memories unravel.
Not everything—almost nothing— I memorialize of Dr. Tiller is terrible. Indisputably prophetic and deeply skilled, he was a genuinely kind and authentic man with an abiding sense of humor and purpose. Every single thing he did for his community was necessary and good.
On my thirtieth birthday, I drove home via the heartland of the United States for the holidays. I stopped in Wichita for a few things: to memorialize my father’s alma mater and my parents’ first home as newlyweds. And, to see Dr. Tiller’s church. I don’t know exactly why I didn’t desire to visit the now-closed clinic. But I knew in my heart I was supposed to pray in his once-sanctuary.
Last night, as a part of my ongoing search for an abiding sense of balance, I sought my own Sabbath ceremony at Boulder Kirtan, a chanting assembly, and met a sage, great-grandfather, astronomer/astrologer about the size of Dr. Tiller, with similarly warm hands. Gentle being.
Though, aged as Dr. Tiller never will be—white beard, wood cane, and stories of wisdom in rocks. His mission: To cultivate joy in every molecule. At first sight, he claimed to see Kirtan inside me and gave me a peace blessing from my skull to my feet—gave me peace behind, below, above, and before me.
Yes. Please...
Yes. Please...
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